


You Reap What You Sow

by finefeatheredfriend



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arthur never had TB, Dialogue Heavy, He would have been one of the men John had to hunt down, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24446674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finefeatheredfriend/pseuds/finefeatheredfriend
Summary: John is sent by the Pinkertons to hunt down and kill all his old gang members to save his family. He’s just moved on to the next name on his list – Arthur Morgan.
Relationships: John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 7
Kudos: 63





	You Reap What You Sow

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sad Thought](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/626602) by oliver-do-the-twist. 



> Let me know what you think in the comments. I'll add another chapter if anyone is interested. Come say hello on Tumblr, I'm @finefeatheredgamer over there.

The figure was stooped over, holding a bay mare's front hoof in weathered hands, rasping away at it, cleaning out the frog and scrapping the toe down to a flat surface before setting an iron shoe against it.

"Easy girl, you're alright," he murmured as she fidgeted, trying to escape his grasp. In the distance he heard hoof beats. He set the mare's foot down and looked up, wiping sweat from his brow and adjusting the leather patch that covered his right eye. A ragged scar jutted down from beneath it, marring skin that was wrinkled with age. He was nearly half a century old and his joints ached and creaked when he moved, despite his strong, broad frame.

The rider of the approaching horse had widened with age, his belly and his face broader and less sallow than it had been when last the man had seen it, but he recognized him instantly. Those three scars sliced across his cheek and another stuttering through his upper lip. He had a gun on his hip and another slung across his back. No matter, the older man had one sitting against his thigh as well. He stretched his sore left shoulder with a wince and gave a weary sigh.

The rider tipped his hat, and the man with the eye patch spoke.

"Been wonderin' how long it'd take for you to come for me, Marston," he intoned in a gravelly voice. The man shrugged.

"Figured I'd find you here, even after all these years."

"They never came for me. Not til now, anyway. After the greetin' I got from you when I found you back in oh five, I figured I wouldn't see you again. Then I heard about old Bill." The one-eyed man released a chuckle that didn’t sound in the least bit amused. His expression was stony as he stared at the other man.

"I did try and take him in alive," replied Marston in his rough voice. It had deepened with age, and there was an unfriendly edge to it.

"Marion never did much like bein' told what to do," the man mused. Marston let out a sigh of impatience, as though he had somewhere to be.

"You gonna come quiet, Morgan?"

"I ain't gonna come at all, Marston," he informed him, his lip curling. "I never did you any wrong." The man on the horse exploded, leaping from his horse and storming toward the other with an accusatory finger extended.

_"You left me!_ You left me on that goddamn mountain, bleedin' to death! You went back for the money." Morgan's one eye went cold and dangerous.

"I went back to kill Micah. After all he did... and I went back to get that money for you."

"Forgive me if I'm a bit skeptical of that," Marston snarled, his hand hovering toward his gun.

"I wouldn't," Morgan warned him, his eye on Marston's gun.

"Give me a reason why!" Marston snapped. Morgan met his gaze steadily.

"Never did find that money, did'ja?" he asked. Marston clenched his jaw.

"It ain't about the money anymore. I've made my way, I figured things out," he insisted, but his tone was defensive and oddly childlike.

"And you got a place of your own, I know," Morgan cut him off. "That money would have made it a damn sight easier, though, gotta admit." Marston sniffed and wiped a hand across his mouth.

"It don't matter anymore, Arthur. It's over for us. Has been for a long time."

Arthur's face softened.

"I wanted better for you."

"Coulda fooled me," Marston responded, his voice bitter, choked.

"Come on into the house, John. Have a shot of whiskey, at least."

"Arthur..."

"John. I'm asking you as a friend. As your brother."

"No. No, you don't get to call me that, _you left me."_

"Yeah, I left you! And you never did give me opportunity to explain m'self, so you'll damn well do it before you put a bullet in me, you ungrateful son-of-a-bitch," he snarled. "Now hitch your horse and come inside. You can put her in the barn." Arthur turned away and started a slow limp toward his cabin, not entirely confident that John wasn't going to shoot him in the back. It's what he would have done, after all, had the roles been reversed.

John considered shooting Arthur in the back for a split second. It would be quick. Through the heart. He'd have just enough time to be surprised, and then he'd be gone and John would be that much closer to having his family back. But the thought of it made him feel sick. They had parted ways badly, but Arthur was still his brother. Of all the men he had been ordered to bring in or kill, this one hurt the most.

John followed Arthur inside, noting his limp and the gray streaks shot through his hair. He was grizzled and stooped slightly from old injuries, like a battered lone wolf, but he still carried himself with a quiet calm that was almost unsettling in its assiduity.

Entering the cabin, John looked around quickly for an ambush. He never had heard from Charles Smith after all these years, and he half expected him to be here, protecting Arthur, but no, the cabin was empty but for the two of them.

Arthur poured them both a jolt of whiskey, sliding the tin cup toward John, who took it and drank it gratefully, his throat dry and parched. He sucked in air through his teeth and winced at the burn.

"Sit down," Arthur ordered, and even after all these years, John found himself obeying the man who had been raised as his older brother. "That bit on the mountain," Arthur rumbled, "it didn't go quite how you have in yer mind, John. Yeah, I went back. But I went back on your behalf. I saw you bleedin' and hurt, but I knew you had it in you to get off that mountain yourself. You always were better at takin' care of yourself than any of the rest of us was. I had to kill that rat," Arthur hissed. "He was there, with the money," he went on, his old drawl slinging the word out to sound more like _muuneh._ "I got the jump on him, but he had a knife. We fought. He cut me up good. Took my damn eye."

Arthur reached up and pulled away the patch, revealing an empty eye socket that oozed tears from the lid. The ragged scar was puffy and slick, a deep gash that split his brow and ran nearly to the edge of his lip.

John couldn't help but wince, couldn't help the tightness in his chest, the concern that bubbled up. He squashed it quickly.

"I ain't here for story time, Arthur. We ain't kids anymore." Arthur gave a rasping laugh that turned into a cough midway through.

"No. No we ain't,” he said, recovering and pouring himself another whiskey. "But we're still family, John." Arthur met his gaze intently.

"They've got _my_ family, Morgan. They've got Abigail. Jack. They'll kill 'em if I don't do what they say." Arthur's eyebrows rose.

"I was wonderin' what had you on a rampage. Weren't like you to go after people. Not in your character."

"Well. Thanks for that, anyway." Arthur hummed and nodded.

"Pinktertons, I’m assuming?"

"Always," John affirmed.

"And I gather they want Dutch."

"Of course. You been in touch with him?" John asked, his tone simultaneously full of hope and dread. Arthur scoffed.

"Hell no. Bastard left me to die after Micah nearly gutted me. I got the drop on that rat, though. Left him with a bullet in his belly to bleed to death."

"You sure Micah's dead?" John asked, his voice flat, not betraying his urgent interest in the matter. Arthur's gaze flicked up and met his again.

"I'm shoa," he drawled. John sniffed.

"How?"

"I did try to come to you about this years ago, John," Arthur fenced, evading the question.

"I know. I ran you off. Wasn't like you didn't deserve it." Arthur rolled his eye.

"I told you–"

"I don't believe you," John cut him off. "I think you were just out for yourself, Morgan." Arthur grumbled under his breath and stood, making John nervous. He scooted his chair back.

"Just..." Arthur held a hand out placatingly. "I found your little place at Beecher's Hope a couple of years back." John's face went very pale and his knuckles white on the table where he was gripping it.

"What?" he hissed.

"I tried talkin' to Abigail. Tried talkin' to Uncle. I'm sure you'll be happy to know they both threatened to fill me full of lead." Arthur let loose another cough, pounded his chest with a fist.

"So that's how they found me," John murmured. Arthur froze.

"What?"

"The Pinkertons. I was wonderin' how they found me. You led ‘em right to my door, Morgan!"

"Well, hell, John, you bought a place right outside of Blackwater! You never did have but half a brain and the wolves got the other half."

"You shut up," John snarled, leaping to his feet, his chair flinging backwards behind him in a cacophony of scraping and clattering. Arthur didn't move, but stared at John where he stood, shifting his weight on his feet with unease.

"Maybe so. Maybe they did find you because I did. And I know you prob'ly won't ever believe that I was trying to get the money for you, but it's true. And I can prove it." John scoffed.

"This nice cabin, all this land. You _spent_ it," he spat.

"No. No, Hamish left this to me. I didn't spend the money, John. I was savin' it for you. Tried to give it to Abigail, but she wouldn't let me speak."

"You're lying." Arthur stood with a grunt, shuffled to a chest in the corner and unlocked it with a key from his pocket. With a swift, angry kick, he flung it open. John's brows rose.

"You've had it this whole time?"

"And never spent a cent of it," Arthur said softly. "It's yours." John's face went through a series of changes – rage, happiness, grief, and finally it settled on cold anger.

"It doesn't matter anymore, Arthur. _They've got my family,"_ he reminded Arthur urgently. There was a long moment of hesitation as John stared at the chest full of money, and then looked back at Arthur, who stood quietly next to it.

John's hand went to his gun and with a lightning fast movement he had it trained on Arthur. But he had underestimated his old friend. Arthur's gun was in his hand just as quick, aimed at John just as steadily, despite his missing eye.

"It don't gotta be like this, John."

"Oh, Arthur," John said softly, his chest burning with grief and rage and helplessness.

"Don't you 'oh, Arthur' me. Never did like it much when folk said it like that. Put your gun down, John."

"No."

"I don't want to kill you," Arthur told him, his voice sincere.

"I don't want to kill you, either."

"So don't. Let me come with you." John scoffed. "John. I'm dyin'." John's eyebrows rose, his eyes widening in surprise.

"What?" he breathed. Arthur nodded.

"Doctor says it's somethin' to do with my lungs. Cancer, he said. Serves me right. All them years of robbin' and killin' folk. You reap what you sow. I'm a dead man anyway, Marston," Arthur breathed, his face earnest. John swallowed, but kept his grip firmly on the pistol aimed at Arthur’s chest.

"And?"

"And I can help you. I'll go with you willingly. I'll help you get Dutch. And then I'll let 'em hang me. Or better yet, you can put a bullet in my brain. John...all these years, all I ever wanted was to help you. So please. Let me do it now. Let me make things right. Let me...hell, let me redeem myself for all the good it'll do me. I'm headed for hell either way. Give me a little peace before I go."

There was a click. John had decocked his pistol. He twirled it by its trigger guard on his finger and slung it back into its holster. Arthur did the same. John held a hand out for Arthur to shake it, but the older man used it to pull him close, embracing him.

"I missed you, old man," John admitted. Arthur chuckled.

"Who you callin' 'old'? You don't look so spry yerself, Marston." They parted and Arthur’s face split into a wide smile, patting John on the shoulder. "Come on, boah. Let's go save yer family."


End file.
